Diplomacy
by IShouldBeOverThis
Summary: After Mycroft meets Detective Inspector Lestrade he invites him to lunch.  Pre-Mystrade  because I have so many Mystraders as friends .
1. Chapter 1

"You'll need my brother Mycroft on this one. It could get messy and he can smooth the way. It's his job," Sherlock had said as he pulled on his gloves.

Sherlock had solved it but there were many who wished that he hadn't, not when it led back to a royal, a lowly one, but still titled. And it was messy and depraved and could have really put a spanner in the upcoming Olympics.

Greg was not looking forward to cleaning it up and so Sherlock's, what? Offer? Suggestion? was unexpected.

"Um, thanks. How do I reach him?"

"Don't worry, he'll reach you." Sherlock paused at the door, "He's very clever, my brother." He said this grudgingly. "You'll like him. People do." And with that enigmatic statement he swept out.

Greg knew that Sherlock had a brother. John had talked about him, about his drama (must run in the family), his importance in the government and the strained relationship between the brothers. Greg had seen him at a distance, standing by his car at the edge of crime scenes, but never spoken to him. He wasn't sure what you said to a man like that. He was a bit frightened to have another Holmes involved with his work.

He didn't have to wait long. The next morning he walked into his office to find a formally dressed man with an umbrella sitting in front of his desk. He could see the family resemblance, but Mycroft Holmes was nowhere near as handsome as his brother. Very few people were. He wasn't bad looking, just not in Sherlock's league. Greg remembered John mentioning the ongoing weight issues and the way Sherlock liked to torment his brother about them, yet the man in front of him was certainly not overweight. He wondered whether that had been irritating growing up. When had Sherlock come into his looks? Was their rivalry over intellect a way for Mycroft to get even for Sherlock's flaunting? He realized that he was in his own head and staring. In order to establish some dominance in his own office he didn't hold out his hand in greeting.

"Mr. Holmes? Sherlock mentioned that you might come by."

"Please, Mycroft. Let us not stand on formality. After all, we both deal with my brother; that rather makes us comrades-in-arms." He smiled a tight little smile that was just on this side of pleasant vs. condescending. Sherlock's smiles always fell the other way.

"So, you have a little mess that many would rather have swept under the carpet, hmm?" Mycroft examined an imaginary piece of dirt on the tip of his umbrella before looking back up to stare, piercingly, into Greg's eyes. "Unfortunately, and I do appreciate how galling this may be believe me, you must let my people take care of this one. I assure you that justice will be served, the appropriate people made to pay and future disturbances prevented."

Greg rankled. He hated this, MI5 or MI6 or whoever, swooping in and taking over a case that he and his team had struggled over, with Sherlock's help yes, but still. "Yes, but will due process be served? Last time I checked, we were a democracy and cautions had to be read, rights maintained."

Mycroft tilted his head down slightly and gave another of those looks. They didn't exactly look alike, but the cut-you-down-with-a-glance was the same. "We're the government. Trust us. You really don't have any choice."

Greg scowled.

Mycroft rose, straightened his waistcoat, buttoned his jacket and adjusted his umbrella's position on the floor. He wasn't much taller than Greg, but he tilted his head back so that he was effectively looking down his long nose at the DI. "For what it's worth, Detective Inspector, I sympathize with your feelings. You must believe that the government, well, I at least, have the country's best interests at heart." He smiled again, politely. "I'm sure we will meet again. My brother does seem to draw people into the maelstrom around him." He paused, and for a moment there was a very small vulnerability, and downward flick of the eyes that showed that whatever came out of his mouth next would be more truthful than he would like. Greg had seen it come over Sherlock on occasion. Whatever force had created the Holmes brothers, it had taught them to fortify their defenses well, but there was something more beneath their facades. It's what kept him putting his cases in Sherlock's hands time and again, a sense that there was someone, something better struggling to come out.

Mycroft continued, eyes still lowered to the carpet. "I would enjoy meeting you under better circumstances. You have a commendable career, which I have long admired." The blue eyes came back up to meet Greg's. "Plus, you tolerate my brother, no easy feat, and keep him out of trouble. You have helped him immensely. It has not gone unnoticed.

"Have a very pleasant day, Detective Inspector." And he was gone. Not with the swirl of coat, but with a light swing of the umbrella.

Damn the Holmes brothers and damn their affectations, their intelligence, and their meddling, and damn the fact that they were so damn interesting. Well, if he was lucky he'd probably never have to deal with Mycroft Holmes again.

Which was why he was very surprised when two days later a large man who was so clearly a bodyguard that he should have had 'Security' printed across the back of his well-cut suit, was shown into his office.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade? Mr. Mycroft sends his regards." The muscle held out an envelope.

"Er, thanks?"

"I was told to wait for a response."

"Oh." He opened the envelope. Inside was a note on cream coloured heavy stock, handwritten in what Greg vaguely remembered was called Copperplate script.

_Dear Detective Inspector,_

_I hope that you will not think this too forward of me, but as I mentioned during our meeting, I would welcome the chance to get to know you better. It is difficult to find someone who is both outside of the intrigues of my work, and yet able to understand them because of his own career. I am free tomorrow for lunch between twelve and one. My associate is awaiting your response._

_Mycroft Holmes_

Who the hell says that his associate is awaiting your response? Who sends handwritten notes in this day and age? Mycroft Holmes, apparently.

He made a show of checking his calendar and his phone to prove that Mr. Super-Important Holmes wasn't the only one to have a busy schedule, but twelve to one _was_ when he usually took his lunch if at all possible, and there was nothing urgent on his desk for the day.

"Um, well, tell him that…" (How did you phrase something like this? How would a posh git do it?) "I am available at the moment, but I'm sure that he can…appreciate that with the demands of my job that can change in an instant. How will I reach him to cancel?"

"Of course, sir. Mr. Mycroft said to tell you that if you were amenable, he would be at your disposal. I will pick you up and if you are not available I will let Mr. Mycroft know."

At my disposal? "Ok, well, tell him…thanks?" Great, he'd said thanks twice as a question. So much for the commanding Detective Inspector routine. Why did both Holmes brothers reduce him to a schoolboy half the time? He wouldn't have thought that he had any sense of class deference, but here he was practically tugging on his forelock.

Nothing came up in the intervening hours and Greg was both relieved (who but Sherlock Holmes would wish for a murder?) and disappointed, like a kid wishing for an illness on the day of a test.

At exactly ten to twelve the muscle appeared at his door. "Sir, are you free?"

"Um, yes. Let me just get my coat."

Riding in the back of a limousine was not a new experience but it certainly wasn't a common one. Oh, damn, why hadn't he thought of this before? He should have made up a conflict. Mycroft was sure to have picked some posh git restaurant that Greg couldn't afford and damned if he was going to let Mycroft pick up the tab. Greg Lestrade paid his own way. He'd just have to budget carefully over the next month or so.

Once again he was surprised when the car pulled up in front of a small bistro. He'd eaten here before. The food was good and reasonably priced.

Mycroft was sitting at a small table at the back of the restaurant, smiling as serenely as ever.

"Good afternoon, Detective Inspector. I hope the restaurant meets with your approval. I believe that you have had the chance to eat here before? Is the menu good? Is there anything that you recommend?"

"You can call me Greg."

"Pardon?"

"You can call me Greg, if you like. I mean if I'm to call you Mycroft. Only seems…fair."

"Please, don't worry about that. I will gladly address you any way that you wish. I simply prefer Mycroft as I don't really have a title within the government. I occupy such a minor position."

"Greg is fine. Greg is good."

"Excellent. Now, to our meal."

They ordered, Mycroft asking polite questions about what Greg had eaten before, then ultimately ordering a simple salad. Greg, in a kind of panic ordered a pasta off the top of his head when the waiter returned.

Again Greg was surprised as Mycroft was an excellent dining companion, conversant in a far wider range of subjects than Greg would have credited, offering gentle anecdotes which, while they sometimes involved famous people, were never condescending or show-offy. And he asked questions of Greg, never prying, but with what seemed to be a genuine interest. It was what he imagined being at lunch with Stephen Fry might be, if one were as equally interesting as Stephen Fry. In spite of himself he found he was enjoying the other man's company immensely. Sherlock had been right. He did like Mycroft for Mycroft was very likeable.

Up until the moment when Mycroft said, "I hope I've dispelled your fears about establishing a friendship between us."

Why, why, why did they have to do that, Sherlock and Mycroft, read your mind like your brain was transparent?

And then it was back, that tiny insecurity in the eyes, "Oh, dear, I shouldn't have said that. I've made you uncomfortable when I've worked so hard to make you feel comfortable. They say a distinguished diplomat could hold his tongue in ten languages and I seem to have failed in my native one." His eyes flicked to the side, just like Sherlock. "The art of manners, as you know, is putting everyone else at their ease. I have been no better than Sherlock who prides himself on making people as uncomfortable as he can."

Greg held up his hand for the bill, "Thank you for inviting me to lunch, Mr. Holmes, but I am not interested in being an experiment for another Holmes' entertainment. I'm not sure why you decided that it would be fun to meet me at one of my favorite restaurants, talk to me about things that interest me that you must have researched, all in order to get me to 'friend' you. I don't know why, I'm not you or Sherlock, and I don't want to know, but I am not interested in whatever you're planning. Just leave me out of it and go play whatever sick games you and your brother play with someone else." He threw a pile of notes on the table, probably more than was needed but he didn't care and was ready to stride purposefully out of the restaurant, when he felt Mycroft's hand on his arm.

"Please, Greg, let me explain myself." It was said with what seemed to be such pure emotion that Greg did stop and reluctantly sat back down.

"This had better be good," he said.

Mycroft looked off into the middle distance and was silent for so long that Greg was ready to just leave. If it took the man this long just to make up an excuse…

"Greg, I've been a diplomat too long. Will Durant, the American historian, says that 'to say nothing, especially when speaking, is half the art of diplomacy.' I collect quotes like that, to keep myself honest.

"And I have not been entirely honest with you." During this speech Mycroft had kept his eyes resolutely away from Greg's face.

"The truth is that I have been observing you for some time and hoping for a chance to meet you. When this opportunity presented itself, I leapt at it. I could have had someone send you an email, but I chose to come in person.

"Yes, it started because I observe everyone who impacts my brother's life, particularly in a positive way but…the truth is, Greg, and I'm sorry to say this so bluntly but when all is lost you have nothing to lose, as they say. The truth is that I find you attractive. In addition to being physically very handsome, I admire your presence, your control of situations and the way that you deal with your team. I also observ— rather, _imagined_ that you might be as lonely in the trials of your job as I often am in mine, and that might be a common ground on which to begin a friendship.

"Forgive me for wasting your time. I won't disturb you again."

"…you find me attractive?"

"Yes. Foolish isn't it? I have always found myself hopelessly drawn to men who are as straight as Adam in the garden."

"You find me attractive?" Greg repeated stupidly. "It's just… This is going to take a little time for me to process. I don't have a computer for a brain."

He paused, running things through his brain that was more like a calculator than that Watson thing. It was damn flattering to have caught the interest of someone like Mycroft Holmes who must meet far more fascinating people every day. He wasn't interested in _that_, or he didn't think so, hadn't thought so. But finding out someone finds you attractive tends to make that person more attractive in your eyes. But he wasn't like that. Was he?

This wasn't the first offer, although not in a long time. Did he give off a vibe? And Mycroft wasn't bad looking and so damn interesting. That is if the whole 'I like all the things you like' hadn't been a complete lie. And having someone to talk to about his day who, how had Mycroft put it, was outside of it, but could understand, could be nice. That problem was pretty much the reason that his marriage had ended. He and John were becoming pretty good friends, but John had Sherlock to contend with and let's not kid ourselves, John's loyalty was always going to lie with Sherlock.

"Ok, yes, I think I'd enjoy being friends with you. I think we do have things in common. Let's just start with that, and see where it goes."

Many years later when they were reminiscing fondly about that first lunch and how it had worked out so well, Greg mentioned how impressed he'd been with Mycroft being honest with him.

Mycroft smiled across the breakfast table, "You know, Greg, Daniele Vare said that 'diplomacy is the art of letting someone have your way."

Which was when Greg threw the toast at Mycroft's head.


	2. Seeing Where it Goes

Greg Lestrade wasn't sure what he had with Mycroft Holmes at this point. They were good friends certainly, and that was odd enough considering their different status and circles. But they were good friends and they had fallen into the habit of having dinner together on Friday evenings whenever possible, generally a small, friendly place where both could relax.

Mycroft had expressed his romantic interest at that first lunch, but true to his word, he had never pushed the issue and seemed content to be Greg's friend. It was, as he had said, good to have someone who, while they couldn't discuss the particulars of work, could understand the pressures. Someone who could understand the fact that they couldn't discuss their work.

It was enough to simply say, "Ugly case today," or, "Think this one's going to get off on a technicality after all our work." Or for Mycroft to say, "Things are not going well at the negotiation table," or "Bloody tired. Had to fly to Geneva and back today," and know that the other would understand.

So there was nothing out of the ordinary when Mycroft's car was waiting at Scotland Yard to pick Greg up on a Friday night.

But, after getting into the car, Greg could see that it had not been any sort of a good day. Mycroft looked ruffled. Well, ruffled for him. His tie was loosened, a few hairs were out of place and his pocket square had obviously been used.

"You alright, Mycroft?"

Mycroft sighed, "Just a bit…trying today. Do you mind if we forego dinner out this evening?"

"No, no problem at all. You could have just called to cancel. You didn't have to come in person. I would have understood," Greg reached out and patted the other man gently on the shoulder. He continued in a low voice, "You don't always have to be quite so proper, Mycroft. I'll take the tube home. It's fine." He reached for the door handle, but Mycroft stopped him. For a moment the other man's hand rested on his.

"No, I…I wanted to see you. Just to…relax." Mycroft smiled wanly, then moved his hand.

Greg swallowed. "You could, we could, we could go to my flat, just…hang out." He'd never had Mycroft around to his place, and he'd never been to Mycroft's. That had seemed too intimate.

Mycroft made a wry smile, "Hang out?" His mouth shaped the words as though they were a foreign language, one he didn't know.

But to Greg's surprise, Mycroft relaxed slightly, the starch going out of his shoulders and said, "Yes, I think I'd like that."

It was a bachelor's flat. Everything screamed that a typical male lived there. Alone. There were the requisite take-away cartons and beer bottles. The laundry stacked on the stuffed chair was clean and folded but was more likely to be worn again before it was ever put away. Greg stalled at the door, trying simultaneously to let Mycroft go ahead and to slip in to tidy up. At least he didn't have porn mags or DVDs strewn about.

Mycroft held up his hand, "Please, Greg, don't make any effort on my account. I like the…comfortableness of it. If a little disorder bothered me as much as people think, then I would never be able to visit my brother in his den."

Greg smiled. Mycroft could always put him at ease. It was his unique talent, which was probably what made him so good at his job.

"Um, take-away?"

"That sounds lovely."

"Indian, Chinese, Thai?" Greg asked, waving menus.

"Whatever you prefer. Do you have any wine?" Mycroft sat down primly on Greg's settee, but then he seemed to reconsider and let himself lean back into its comfort. He shut his eyes and Greg was struck by Mycroft's simple attractiveness. Not striking like his brother, but basic, like a well-made white shirt.

"I've only got some old red. Nothing up to your standards."

"I don't judge a person on the quality of their wine cellar, Greg. I'm sure it will be fine and go admirably with a Vindaloo."

Greg laughed and went to wash some seldom used wine glasses. He vaguely remembered that reds were supposed to go in the rounder ones for body or something. But Mycroft took the proffered glass with a tender smile.

After placing the order, Greg shuffled about, moving some things, taking the clothes to the bedroom to get them out of the way at least. He didn't fancy sitting on the sofa with Mycroft and looking across the room at his y-fronts.

They ate with the telly on, but Mycroft made him switch the station whenever the news came on. "I get all the news I need in my red boxes, more than I need. More than anyone needs."

Greg set his glass down on the coffee table. "Can you talk about it? Do you want to talk about it? You know I'm always here to listen."

Mycroft smiled again, "I know Greg; I value that. I have very few people with whom I can just…be."

"Well, hell, Mycroft. Be. Take off your shoes, your waistcoat, your tie. Make yourself comfortable. Mess up your hair, unbutton your cuffs. Anything you want!"

"Why, Greg, if I didn't know better I'd think you were trying to undress me!"

They both froze. They'd had this kind of banter before. In the beginning they'd both been so careful to avoid the suggestion of anything—of a gay man flirting with a straight man—that it had become more uncomfortable than if they'd just let it go, so now it had become a game. But still, it was one thing out in public, it seemed different here in Greg's own flat.

Mycroft put his hand to his forehead, forefinger pressed against the bridge of his nose. "I'm sorry Greg, I shouldn't have said that. I know you didn't…there's just been so much unpleasantness this week…and I…"

"Hey, no, no, I understand. It's not…it doesn't bother me. I just want to be able to help. That's what friends do."

With a rueful little laugh, Mycroft looked down into his lap. "Is that what friends do?"

"God, did you and Sherlock not have friends as kids. You both seem so surprised by simple kindness," he paused, and then went on as gently as he might with a victim of a crime, "Tell me what's going on."

"You know that I can't, not really. Just that…two…no, I really shouldn't… What happens, Greg, when you find a dirty cop at the Yard?"

"Um, there's a division, a special division that investigates, Internal Affairs. Depending on what the policeman did, they may be put on unpaid leave, dismissed or, if it's bad enough, sent to prison. It's not very well liked, you can imagine. Is that what happened? Did you have your version of a dirty cop?"

"Yes, but there isn't anything like Internal Affairs in my business. Not once the damage is done."

"Oh…"

"What it comes down to, and I shouldn't be telling you this at all, but what it comes down to is that two men died this week. The first was a very good man, and no one outside of my office will ever know what he did for his country, including his wife and children. Such is the way it is in my line of work.

"…and the other…I thought he was a good man… I trusted him, Greg. I trusted him completely, we all did and…

"It never gets any easier. It's not like there haven't been problems before, but each time you think, 'not him, he couldn't possibly, she would never.'" Mycroft gasped as though he were trying to control himself and put his face in his hands.

"You should be glad that it doesn't."

Mycroft looked up, "What?"

"That it doesn't get any easier. Because it shouldn't. If you don't feel betrayed when it happens then…it means you don't trust anyone anymore, and you can't live like that. No one can."

Greg was leaning into Mycroft now, looking into his eyes. He'd unconsciously gripped Mycroft's hands in his. 'If he were a woman,' Greg thought, 'I'd have kissed him by now. Maybe just as a friend, but I'd be more physically comforting.' With that thought foremost in his mind he pulled the other man to him so that Mycroft's head was pressed into his shoulder. This he was good at. He didn't know it, but in his own way he was just as capable as Mycroft in putting people at ease.

Mycroft pulled back slightly and Greg leant in and pressed their lips together. If he'd thought too long about it he wouldn't have done it. If they hadn't had the companionship of the previous months, he wouldn't have done it. Any number of things might have stopped him, but they didn't.

Instead, Mycroft stopped him by leaping up so fast he nearly fell over the coffee table.

"Don't! Just don't! My God, why would you do that?" Mycroft was scrambling for his coat now, "I have to go. I should never have thought…"

"Mycroft, wait! What did I do? What?"

Mycroft stopped, and he was once again the 'minor-government official' who secretly controlled everything. Prim, proper but just a little bit frightening and completely in control of himself. "Oh, please," he sneered, "let's give the gay boy a pitying kiss. He'll be beside himself with joy and everything will go back to normal. I thought better of you, Greg."

"Mycroft, no, I…that's not what I meant at all. Wait, just wait! You needed comfort, and I…I needed to give it to you. Maybe I have for a while. I don't know. I know I didn't…dislike it."

Mycroft looked dumbstruck.

"Look, Mycroft, just sit back down. Just sit down and we'll talk like we do or watch a game or a film or something and everything will be fine. We'll be fine."

"No, I…I don't think it will be fine."

"What? Why? We're…mates. We're…?"

"That's just it, Greg," Mycroft said, but he sat back down, perched on the edge of the sofa, ready to leave. "You know how I feel. How I've always felt. And now…I thought I would get over it. Being in love with you. But I haven't and now that…you've kissed me, I don't think…I don't think that I'm strong enough to keep…being near you. Like this. Like mates."

"Oh," said Greg, "we could…we could try it again."

Mycroft looked exasperated as if he expected Greg to be more intelligent. "I just said that…"

"No," Greg said, and this time he reached out to touch Mycroft's hand, "I meant we could try the kiss again."

"I don't want your pity or your appeasement. I'm not a dog who'll be happy with a bone," he winced, "unfortunate term."

"I'm not offering pity, or appeasement," he smiled to show it was all alright, "or a bone. I'm just saying that it wasn't unpleasant to kiss you. It seemed the right thing to do at the time. Hell, seemed a good idea at the time, and I…I guess I want to see where it goes. If it doesn't work…well, we'll figure that out when we come to it, I guess."

Mycroft smiled, that rare and genuine smile that lit up his face, and made him handsome, "You are a remarkable man, Detective Inspector Lestrade."

"I'm friends with you. That has to count for something."

Mycroft sat back on the sofa. There was now the width of an entire cushion between them.

Greg said, "It would probably work better if we were closer together."

Mycroft slid a tentative inch closer, then another. "Greg, you don't have to do this. I'll be all right. We can go back—"

"Shut-up, Mycroft," Greg said and closed the distance to take Mycroft's face in his hands and kiss him.

It was strange. But familiar too. Mycroft's stubble was sparse and surprisingly soft, but it was still stubble. He smelled of expensive aftershave and hair pomade and face cream. And underneath he smelled like a man. The bones were different in Greg's hands, the jaw stronger, Adam's apple pronounced. Everything seemed sharper than on women. The kiss was chaste, just dry lips against dry lips. Greg didn't feel aroused, but he didn't feel repulsed either. He felt comfortable. Comfortable was the right word.

They parted enough to look in one another's eyes. Mycroft's were open wide, his normal sang-froid disturbed.

"You don't have to do this, Greg. You really don't."

"Let's see how it goes. Isn't that what we first said."

"I won't do anything that you don't want me to do."

"I know."

This time it was Mycroft who pulled Greg's head to his. The lips were wet now, although neither man remembered licking them. They stayed like that for some time, parting, coming back together, parting.

Greg pulled Mycroft tighter to him, "This would be the point, in my other first dates, where we might get a little more…"

"More?"

"More passionate." He leant in again, his lips parted and Mycroft met him.

It was still strange. The smell was different. The planes of the body in his arms was different, but the plain desire was the same. The taste of someone's mouth, curry and cheap plonk not withstanding, was similar, just the textures were new.

Mycroft pulled his mouth away from Greg's and traced a line down his throat with his tongue. Greg let out a puff of air in surprise. It felt good, a natural progression.

But Mycroft pulled back alarmed. "Greg? Tell me if it's too much. I won't do anything that you don't want to do!"

"No, it's fine. Really. Just surprised, but good surprised. Really."

They kissed again. Mycroft slid his fingers through Greg's hair. "I love your hair, Greg. It was one of the first things I noticed about you," he murmured as he went back to planting kisses on Greg's neck.

"What, grey and all," Greg chuckled. He could feel the strokes of Mycroft's tongue even more strongly when he laughed. His body was responding, even if his mind was still trying to sort it all out.

Mycroft pulled back to look in Greg's face. "Do you really not know how handsome you are, Greg? Many women at the Yard, and I suspect, quite a few men, call you a…I believe the term is 'silver fox.'"

Greg shut his eyes and shook his head. "Learn something new everyday. What about you? What do your…boyfriends call you?"

"There hasn't been one in a long while. Look, do you mind if I…get more comfortable? Good Lord, I sound like cheap porn."

"I'd have thought you only had expensive porn," Greg laughed. I told you before, make yourself comfortable, get…unstuffed. You know, stuffed shirt?"

"Yes, but that was before, before we were doing this."

"It's really still fine, Mycroft. If it gets to be…I'll say when."

Mycroft nodded. He stood and, turning away from Greg, undid his tie, unbuttoned his waistcoat and laid them both over the chair. After a moment's consideration he bent down, unlaced his shoes and removed them. He placed them neatly by the chair as well. Greg, watched all of this with an amused grin. This time, instead of sitting back down, Mycroft leant over Greg so that he was pushed back against the sofa. Greg finished the action by pulling Mycroft down on top of him. It was just like making out as teenagers, he thought to himself. Well, except for the fact that they both had penises. Because now that they were spread out, he could feel Mycroft's erection pressing into his hip. That was different and a little alarming, but his body didn't seem to object.

Reaching for Greg's shirt buttons, Mycroft said shyly, "Do you mind?"

"Um, no, not yet."

The top button on Greg's shirt was already undone, the way he usually wore it. Mycroft's deft fingers undid the second two buttons, down to the V of the white t-shirt he was wearing. Mycroft followed his fingers with his mouth, trailing brief kisses along the bared skin, brushing along Greg's chest hair.

"Grey here as well."

"Grey hair everywhere," responded Greg.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow suggestively, "Everywhere?" He was feeling more comfortable now since Greg hadn't slapped his hands away or reacted with disgust. It made him bold, and he ran his palm over the front of Greg's trouser.

But at that Greg did pull back. "Not, not yet. Just…not yet."

"Alright," smiled Mycroft just before he leant in for another kiss, "Let's see where it goes. I'm willing to take all the time in the world."


End file.
